Incident at Clarke's Canyon
by Kayley1979
Summary: Rowdy and Clay run into a bit of trouble in a small town called Clarke's Creek.
1. Chapter 1

**I finally found out where to put my Warnings, Disclaimer and such, so... here you go:**

 **Spoilers: None**

 **Genres: Western, Adventure**

 **Sorry, no Romance in this at all**

 **Warnings: Might be a bit of violence and blood, nothing too bad, I promise**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own nothin', but I sure would like to :).**

 **Review is appreciated!**

* * *

„Say, ah, Clay, don't you think we oughta tell Mr. Favor where we're going?"

Clay Forrester turned in his saddle to pointedly look at Rowdy, who had tamed his own horse and looked back at the hills, behind which the drovers had set up camp and where their more than 2000 head of cattle were supposed to be grasing peacefully.

„Are you outta your mind, Rowdy? What with that foul mood the boss's been nursing all week, I'd rather be fighting a wild cougar with my bare hands than ask him for permission. He'd say No anyway."

„Yeah, he sure would."

Thoughtfully, Rowdy gave a flick to the reins and his sorrel turned obediently, following Clay's horse into the canyon.

.

 ** _The same morning_**

As the morning sun announced a new day early upon the hills, a covered wagon, drawn by horses and flanked by two men on horses, came riding into the small town of Clarke's Creek.

Clarke's Creek really didn't deserve to be called a town, for it consisted of little more than a stable, a grocery store, a saloon and a sherriff's office. The people of Clarke's Creek lived in small ranch houses scattered about the surroundings and only seldom came into town to run their errands, therefore it really was a pleasant surprise for the owner of the grocery store, that said wagon came to a halt just in front of his door, and the driver, a stubby old man with white whiskers, noisily announced that he'd be needing enough supplies for 25 men to last for at least two weeks time.

Mr. G.W. Wishbone had been chief cook and general drudge on cattle drives for as long as he cared to remember. He had been on more drives than he could count and he prided himself on the knowledge of what was needed, when, and how much of it. So, naturally, it fell in his field of duties to pick up the supplies.

This time, due to dried up waterholes in the upper mountains to the east, Mr. Favor, the trail-boss, had decided to take a longer route through the valley of Hollow Springs, where their Scout had promised lots of water and green grasslands, but no town whatsoever, meaning they'd be needing as many supplies as they could get.

Wishbone sighed. He sure could use a break.

He had been accompanied into town by Rowdy Yates and Clay Forrester, which had meant endless talk of fame, fortune and women. It seemed like those two had their heads so high up in the clouds they were bound to waft away with the next breath of wind. Wishbone grimaced. Oh, the sweet bird of youth!

.

Rowdy Yates was the ramrod of Mr. Favor's outfit.

He was young, he was hot-tempered, and he had an uncanny talent for attracting trouble, but he was also the most confident and dedicated man of them all.

When Wishbone had first laid eyes on him, back in St. Antonio, where Mr. Favor had been looking for new drovers to hire, he'd seen nothing more than a braging kid with a big mouth and a self-assured smile to go with it. No experience, no notion, no nothing. He had just wanted a job and Mr. Favor had given him one. Wishbone'd given him no more than a week on the trail. That had been over a year ago.

The kid had pulled his weight. He had worked hard and he had learned fast. Soon he had become a trusted and well-liked colleague to the other drovers rather than a wet behind the ears kid they had to look after.

Well, Wishbone thought dryly, they still had to look after him, because his loose tongue and bad temper seemed to always get him in one kind of trouble or another, no matter how hard he tried to stay out of things.

On their next drive, Mr. Favor had made Rowdy ramrod.

.

Clay Forrester was another story altogether.

Clay was what one would call a well educated young man with a smart mind and a fancy way of talking. He was some years older than Rowdy, came from a wealthy home and nobody really knew why he had wanted to work cattle in the first place. But here he was.

From his first day on Clay had never really made a secret of his desire to become ramrod himself, and so a distinct rivalry had started between him and Rowdy.

Clay had proved himself, too. He had turned out to be a good drover, an outstanding scout and a reliable addition to the crew. He was less stubborn than Rowdy and more likely to think things through before shooting his mouth off, but, truth be told, Wishbone was wary about him. Clay just had a way of getting everybody else to do what he wanted them doing, and that was not always a good thing. When he set his mind to it, he could talk circles around the others until they thought his were the brightest and best ideas they'd ever heard. He could be manipulative and sneaky, when he wanted to be, and Wishborn thought anybody'd be well advised to always double-check his schemes.

Apart from that, Clay was a nice enough guy, and him and Rowdy got along just well.

.

Wishbone took the time to look over at the pair and couldn't help a little shake of his head.

They'd be staying in town until morning, provided all the supplies were in stock.

Plenty of time for those two to find trouble!


	2. Chapter 2

The saloon at Clarke's Creek was nothing more than one small room with a shabby wooden floor, some round tables and a narrow bar.

A dishevelled middle-aged man with a sturdy built stood behind that bar and poured cheap whiskey into unwashed glasses. A heavily made-up woman with fiery red hair leant casually at the back wall, while three more men sat at one of the tables and played a game of cards.

When the saloon doors swung open and Rowdy and Clay entered, all heads turned towards them.

.

Clay had soon had enough of the hot midday sun, so he had suggested they go for a drink rather than standing next to the wagon the whole day. Rowdy had cautiously caught a glimpse at Wishbone, who really seemed to be very busy, and agreed. There wasn't all that much the two of them could do to help anyway. Wishbone liked to take care of the chuck wagon and the supplies himself, so he would probably not even miss them.

.

Together the pair made their way over to the bar and waited for the bartender to acknowledge them.

"Ya're the drovers that rode in this mornin', aren't ya?" the man eventually asked not too kindly, while he chewed on some tobacco.

"That's right." Rowdy confirmed in a feisty tone of voice. He had noticed the scornful looks the men in the saloon had given him and Clay.

"You got a problem with that?"

The bartender shook his head. "No. Long as you get outta here the moment your old goat outside is done with his business, I don't."

Affirmative murmur was heard from the poker table.

"What is it with you? We only just came into town! We didn't do nothin' to you people!" Rowdy asked agitated.

He had known people like that for as long as he worked cattle, which really wasn't all that long yet, but still it didn't sit well with the young man, that people all over the west seemed to label drovers as good-for-nothing drifters, who only came into town to cause trouble.

It was Clay who broke off the argument before it could start. He put a calming hand on his companion's shoulder and pushed himself between him and the bar.

"Look, friend, we only want a drink of whiskey. Think you can manage that?" he asked calmly.

The bartender nodded and went to fetch the bottle of alcohol from the shelf behind him. Rowdy continued to glare, while Clay turned around and took in the rest of the saloon.

One of the men at the table, a wealthy looking fellow in a dark garment and with a high stack of bills on the table in front of him, had obviously overheard what had been said at the bar. With a disapproving snort he muttered: "That's all you drovers ever do, isn't it? You come into town, just for one drink, mind you, but then things get out of hand and someone ends up hurt."

"What do you mean?" Clay asked cautiously.

The man got up and walked over to the bar. Sullenly he motioned to the bartender. "You see, Franks here, he used to have a daughter. She was the most beautiful thing you ever saw, I assure you. Decent and well-educated, too. Every young man would have been proud to call her his. One day, well, one day this drover-boy came along. He was with a herd pushing it north and he had all the makings of a big adventurer. He sweet-talked the girl for all he was worth, promised her the stars in the sky, and she fell in love with him."

Clay sipped on his drink and thoughtfully listened to the story. As did Rowdy.

The older man continued: "But you know how it is with the kind of you. They move on. And so did Miss Cathy's chosen one, and with him all her dreams." He looked very sad all of a sudden. "That was when…"

The bartender, Franks, interrupted the story with a sniveling sound. Forlornly he stood behind the bar, his eyes cast downwards.

"When what?" Rowdy asked anxiously. "What happened to the girl?"

To everybody's surprise it was the bartender who answered the question: "She cried. Five days and five nights she would cry her beautiful eyes out for that scallywag. On the sixth day she went to the quarry and lunged herself down."

The man looked up. Tears were streaming down his face. "You know, boy," he addressed Rowdy, "there's more ways than just a bullet to kill someone."

Rowdy nodded his head once. The story of that poor bartender's daughter saddened him more than he wanted to let on.

On the other hand was none of this his fault, or Clay's for that matter.

They were different than the drover who left Miss Cathy, weren't they? Involuntarily he thought back to the girls he himself had met in one town or another along the drive. Sure, he had liked some of them just fine, and they had liked him, too. But none of those girls would have ended their lives in lovesickness over him, now would they? If anything it always seemed to be him that ailed for days after a breakup, not them.

Then again, maybe Miss Cathy had been special.

"I am sorry about your loss, Mister. I truly am."

Rowdy emptied his shot glass in one go and poured himself a second from the bottle that still sat on the counter. He wasn't much of a drinker, but he felt he needed the burning sensation down his throat right now. It helped clear his head and quench his emotions.

"Yeah, me too." Clay endorsed. "We will be gone in a few hours, though. No need to fret."

With a last glance at the devastated bartender the two men went to sit at one of the unoccupied tables.


End file.
